If I tried, I could write every blog post about fires. Like the one I built in the fireplace mid-afternoon and am keeping burning through the evening. Like coziness of pillows in front of the hearth and starting a new book that I read for hours. Like my cats taking turns warming my lap until they are too fidgety to stay.
It’s an event, like my mom would say. Like going in the hot tub is when I am at their place. An event for a quiet day that makes it feel special. That doesn’t get old yet. I like quiet plans and, with my housekeeping done the day before, I’m free to spend the afternoon at peace. First, on a walk around the point. It’s chilly, but I dress for it and listen to Obama’s new book and pulling my scarf up over my chin.
Then, after coming in from the cold, with a fire.
It reminds me of growing up when my dad would build fires in the living room. Not all the time, but on occasion enough that reading in front of my own fire now draws out layered memories of doing the same thing over a decade ago: sitting on the ledge reading until my back itched with heat that I’d have to lower myself to the floor and then eventually move away to the couch. Now I turn the logs on my own and blow to make the flames grow and feel powerful.
I know we don’t all have fireplaces . . . or are contending with approaching Northern winter . . . but I do think there is wisdom in having small, ordinatry events to conjoure in our lives. Things that make the hour feel special, that break the routine. Some people bake, I suppose. Now, I build fires.
With Love,
Natalie